


Different

by temporalgambit



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 07:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: Shiro tries to be a rock, but the team knows better.





	Different

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt:
> 
> "Shiro takes care of the other paladins/one of them when they get sick. The other/s recover but by then Shiro's starting to feel sick. He doesn't want to admit having caught the bug but eventually has no choice."

“Sorry, Shiro.”

The black lion’s paladin has to hold back a sigh as he replaces the cool compress on Hunk’s forehead. They’d already had this conversation, but some combination of fever and guilt simply won’t allow him to let it go. “You don’t need to apologize, Hunk. Everyone needs some help now and then.”

“I know, but—” a teeth-chattering shudder induces a few hard coughs, and he sighs gratefully when Shiro pulls the blanket back up to cover him.

Though they’re light-years away from the respiratory infections of home, the universe is a cruel mistress. It had only taken one stop on a Mars-like planet for an entirely too-similar bug to hop aboard the castle and wreak havoc with its resident paladins.

With three of them already on the mend, Hunk is the most recent to fall.

Shiro is determined not to be next.

He figures he’s probably in the clear—if he was going to catch it, he almost certainly would already have it. Maybe Galra imprisonment and torture had helped bolster his immune system. There has to have been some good to have come out of it, right?

Or not.

Still, it’s with no small amount of relief that he’s able to stand from Hunk’s bedside, with the latter finally getting some quality rest now that his fever has broken. It’s just about dinnertime now, so hopefully Hunk will be feeling more like himself by tomorrow. Shiro stretches his arms over his head, a gentle pull on cramped muscles from sitting in one position for so long.

He takes one last look at the sleeping form under the covers before allowing the door to slide shut behind him.

Predictably, Coran has taken it upon himself to prepare the evening’s meal. It’s simple food goo yet again, but with “special secret spices!” added. He seems proud, and nobody mentions anything to the contrary, but to Shiro it tastes pretty bland.

He spends more time absently stirring it around on his plate than he does actually eating. He’s not that hungry, anyway. He’s been taking most of his meals off-schedule, between helping Allura and Coran tend to their patients. He can’t remember exactly when he last ate, but it must have been pretty recently.

Nobody really seems to notice—mainly because they’re all doing the same thing. Maybe they feel the same about the taste. Or maybe they’re still not feeling up to par. Lance still has a bit of a dry cough, and Pidge is still bundled up in an extra layer. Keith seems okay all things considered, but looks can be deceiving. Either way, Shiro feels a strange sense of relief once the dishes are cleared away and he can go take a shower. Hectic caretaking hasn’t really allowed for much personal time.

Shiro shudders under the initial blast of warm water and cranks the temperature a little higher. He sighs, closing his eyes as the not-quite-scalding liquid runs down his back. It’s a moment of respite after almost two weeks’ worth of caring for his ill teammates, but the worst is finally over. Hunk will be back on his feet soon, and then everyone can resume their normal daily activities.

He lingers longer than he would usually allow himself to, enjoying his newfound solitude and allowing his mind to wander.

When he finally makes the difficult decision to shut off the stream, goosebumps immediately rise on his skin. Space is pretty unforgiving when it comes to climate control. He falters a little while toweling himself off, head rush darkening the edges of his vision, and mentally chastises himself for spending so long under the hot water. A glance at the clock reveals he’d been in the shower for nearly an hour. He dresses quickly.

There’s probably work that could be done—god knows he’s been slacking on his other duties while everyone has been so sick—but then again…

It’s with a certain sort of magnetism that he finds his feet walking the path to his room instead. Fatigue settles over every part of his body, and he’s flopping face-forward onto his bed before he can talk himself out of it.

This is probably okay, too.

* * *

He wakes to a strange noise in the dimness of his room.

On high alert, he’s thankful he’d forgotten to turn the light off as he scans the room for intruders. It’s an organic sound, rhythmic and damp, almost like—he holds his breath.

The sound stops.

He’s wheezing.

Shiro is not dense, and it’s with great disappointment that he exhales and accepts his fate.

However, he doesn’t feel terrible yet, aside from the tightness in his chest, so maybe that’s a good sign. If he could somehow still avoid worrying the others…

And then he tries to clear a small tickle from his throat, and everything goes to hell.

The slight cough blooms spectacularly, setting off a chain reaction that literally knocks the wind out of him. His lungs burn with the force of trying to expel their inside coating—something thick and syrupy that will not dislodge no matter how hard he tries.

He’s trembling all over when it finally ends.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

Predictably, he’s only able to manage about another hour’s sleep, tossing and turning and getting tangled in his sweat-dampened sheets between bouts of coughing. By the time morning comes, his whole body aches from overexertion. He’s almost relieved when the castle lights brighten to signal the dawn of a new day—at least he can stop playing exhausted catch-up with this infection.

He dresses slowly, dizziness threatening to send him sprawling. He coughs, chokes, and really is sent sprawling with one leg in and one out of his pants. By pure luck he manages to land on his bed, but he still jars his hip in the process and sucks in a sharp breath.

He feels old. Creaky and cranky and worn out. It’s almost laughable, considering two of his crewmates are literally ancient—but most certainly in better shape than he’s in right now.

All he has to do is get through breakfast and the team-bonding exercise they have planned for this morning. Then he can spend the rest of the day hiding out and focusing on recovering. Nobody has to know this was ever even a problem. He grits his teeth.

Breakfast is uneventful, everyone (again) too caught up in their own little worlds to pay any mind to how little he eats. He thinks he sees Allura staring at one point, but fights to avoid eye contact and shove a spoonful of goo into his mouth instead. Hunk eventually joins them at the table as well, his condition vastly improved from the day before—though he is exempt from their training on principle.

Shiro has to excuse himself somewhat quickly and retreat to the bathroom to hack until his vision goes hazy, but nobody seems to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Teambuilding is a little different.

It’s just the mental exercise they have to do occasionally to keep their bond as Voltron in ship-shape. Normally, Shiro enjoys the warmth that comes from the closeness they feel as a team. It’s comforting and altogether reassuring to know that he has the very best people he could have asked for on his side.

Today, though, the very last thing he wants is his teammates accidentally poking around inside his head.

The more you try to avoid thinking about something, the more you’ll inevitably end up thinking about it. Sitting cross-legged in the circle, he briefly wonders if maybe it would just be better to say something. At least then he could downplay it a little.

But it’s too late, and the exercise has begun.

He’s focusing…focusing…focusing…and it seems to be going well? He can’t allow himself to get distracted and ponder on it, but his connection is holding out strong. He has the mental fortitude to get through this. He briefly, just for a flicker of a second, wonders what he had been so worried about in the first place.

But then he starts to feel kind of strange. He has to cough, throat aching with the effort of keeping quiet. He resorts to holding his breath instead, and immediately the need grows stronger, threatening to burst out of him despite his best efforts. His connection slips a little, and he senses a slight probing question from his teammates, but he’s more focused on how dizzy and disoriented he feels with his eyes closed. And his thoughts are anywhere but Voltron by this point, but it doesn’t seem to matter because the last thing he hears is, “Shiro, are y—”

He gasps, and that’s all the warning anyone has before he erupts in coughs, barely able to breathe between bouts. He feels like he’s drowning, and he nearly decks himself in the face as he smothers himself into the crook of his arm. His mind is static, and all he sees when he opens his eyes is a parade of dancing black dots.

He expects to collapse to the floor when it’s over, and is mildly surprised when he doesn’t. Then he registers a warm presence at his side and realizes he’s being supported.

It’s Lance, and he’s been talking frantically to him for who knows how long.

“Shiro! Shiro, you’re—can you hear me?”

Shiro nods, trying to extract himself from Lance’s grip, but Lance holds tight.

“Take it easy, okay? We figured you weren’t feeling well, but…”

A beat. “What?”

Keith pipes up, “We knew you were gonna catch this pretty much from day one.”

Pidge. “You took care of everyone, how could you not get sick?”

Oh.

“You’re totally sweaty and hot. Did you even take your temperature?”

“No, but—”

“And you barely ate at breakfast.”

“Are you getting enough fluids?”

“You should really lay down.”

“Let me help you—”

“I’ll get you a—”

“Do you want to—”

The fussing is exactly as he’d expected.

The warm little feeling in between all the hurt in his chest, though, is different.


End file.
